


Vulnerable

by ice_evanesco



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, unapologetic fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_evanesco/pseuds/ice_evanesco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of the vulnerable side of the previously impenetrable fortress named Mycroft Holmes, as seen from those closest to him. </p><p>It's set within the Collision-verse, but can be independently read without confusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> A series of short fics based on the [30 Day OTP Challenge](http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge) set within Collision-verse, but can be independently read. 
> 
> I'm doing this as an exercise of sorts to get used to writing Collision's Mycroft and Greg again, after dwelling for some time in the Choice Theory-verse.

It wasn’t made a big deal of.

It wasn’t either of their styles to make a big deal of anything, actually.

The day had been cold, and rainy, an utterly miserable day to be out working, but duty called Greg, and Greg called Sherlock, so there they all were, knee deep in foul-smelling muck, looking down at a body. Sherlock was deep in his deductive throes of passion, leaping nimbly over the corpse, getting himself glares from Anderson in the process as a little bit of the mud dripped onto John Doe’s already muddy shirt.

Anderson seemed on the verge of going into another yappy fit about evidence, so Greg cut him off with, “It doesn’t matter, the shirt’s already ruined, a few more splatters of the same stuff won’t make it worse than it is. Besides, the man’s dead. He won’t care about the state of his clothing anymore.”

Anderson gave a disbelieving, slightly amused snort. “He won’t, you won’t, and _he_ -” Here the man jerked a thumb at Sherlock, who was still looking at the body in a flurry of motion, “- most definitely won’t, but it’s a matter of procedure, you know that, boss.”

Greg gave a wry smile, “Yeah, procedure.” His smile turned slightly fonder as he glanced at Sherlock, his thoughts going to Mycroft, who was away, and had been for about two weeks or so. He wondered what Mycroft would say about Sherlock messing with procedure, then decided that Mycroft probably wouldn’t say a word at all. He was simply too used to working around the walking disaster zone that was Sherlock. It must have been hard for Mycroft, who was so dependant upon rules and procedure to ease his way, to have a younger brother like Sherlock.

His eyes suddenly hardened as he spied Sherlock sliding one foot under the body, about to turn it over, rebuking the younger man in a strident voice, “Oy! Stop that!”

Sherlock glanced up at Greg and Anderson, and blinked like a deer caught in headlights, before huffing. “He’s holding something in his hand, and it’s trapped under his body.”

“You know the rules.” Greg stood firm. “Out of there now.”

Sherlock splashed his way out of the ditch, with a pout about his lips. Anderson returned to his work.

The purr of an expensive car stopped Sherlock, who had opened his mouth to make his complaints to Greg, like a spoilt child. His pout descended into a sulk, as the black car drew to a graceful stop just beside the tape that demarcated the crime scene. “Mycroft.” He muttered the name as though it were bitter in his mouth.

Sure enough, a tall, ginger-haired man stepped out of the vehicle. He was wrapped up in a fur-trimmed coat, and balanced a tray of hot drinks in one gloved hand. He rested the tray on top of the vehicle, before smiling at Greg, who was certain that Mycroft Holmes had to be a demi-god, because now, the entire team were all grinning at the scent of coffee that cut cleanly through the air.

The man grabbed a cup, and ducked under the tape. He handed the cup of hot chocolate to Sherlock, who scowled and turned away to drink it, not acknowledging his arch-enemy.

Brother placated, Mycroft tugged off his gloves and slipped them into a pocket before grabbing Greg’s chilled, almost aching hands. His hands were warm, and Greg smiled as the taller man bent down slightly to blow warm air over the chilled fingers, and rub them briskly to warm them.

“Welcome home.” Greg looked up at Mycroft, grinning slightly. “I missed you.”

“As did I, my dear Gregory.” Mycroft murmured.

“Feeding my team again?” Greg teased as the team almost stampeded towards the coffee, squeezing Mycroft’s hand gently. “It’s almost like you want to make friends.”

Mycroft laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Feeding my team again?” - This is a reference by Greg to Chapter 3 of Collision, where Mycroft ordered in food for his entire team as a thank you to Greg.


	2. Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to pester Mycroft for evidence, only to happen upon Mycroft asleep in Greg's arms.

Sherlock sprinted up the stairs, almost leaping from flight to flight as he raced towards Mycroft’s flat, a flurry of movement.

John panted as he tried to keep up, before grabbing Sherlock by his coat and wheezing out, “Can’t we wait-? Until tomorrow? Or call?”

“I need it now, John.” Sherlock said impatiently, as though he had repeated it twenty or thirty times. “He asked me to look into this case for him, then he left the country without giving me all the things I asked from him. This case is driving me crazy! I know I can solve it, I just need that thumbdrive he forgot to give me!” He darted up the stairs again, and paused, “And he’s just returned, he’s tired, and if I play this right, I can get more out of him.”

John shook his head, and trudged up at a slower pace up the last flight of stairs.

Sherlock was picking the lock when John finally finished his climbing, leaning against the banister to catch his breath. “You’re ridiculous.” John muttered, and Sherlock turned towards him for a split second with a half-smile, before returning to his work as though he hadn’t heard at all.

Sherlock pushed open the door, ready to harass Mycroft into submission. He was taken aback by the sight of _a gun_ pointed at him.

By a grinning Gregory Lestrade, no less.

The Detective Inspector was on the sofa, a book propped open on the back of it. He had been reading, apparently, before hearing them both. He looked perfectly comfortable there, dressed in an old cotton t-shirt, and pyjama pants, like he belonged, incongruous as he was, in Mycroft's sleek, over-designed abode. He also looked remarkably confident with holding the gun with a hand, showing he had some practice with it.

Sherlock supposed it was hardly that shocking, considering that Greg was now sometimes "borrowed" from the Yard to travel with Mycroft as a bodyguard, of sorts, most notably during anniversaries and birthdays. Mycroft was a romantic at heart, despite all his words about caring not being an advantage. Sherlock sometimes suspected that Anthea was promoted so as to lighten Mycroft's workload (giving him more time with Greg), and also give him an excuse to travel with Greg as part of his security detail. He did get Greg trained in handling a gun, just so his superiors (not that there were many) didn't have much objection to make. But that wasn’t the surprising thing.

The surprise was the sight of Mycroft. The man was sound asleep, his head pillowed on Lestrade’s chest, arms around his lover. His ginger hair was tousled, and he was still dressed in a shirt, tie and other attire tossed over the back of his armchair, though the sleeves had been rolled up. Greg's leg was bent at the knee, and pressed to Mycroft's back, preventing the other from falling off the couch. He looked very comfortable, and at ease. That rankled Sherlock a little. The younger Holmes was rarely comfortable, or at ease, not even in his home. His mind buzzed like a beehive with knowledge, experiments to do and scattered facts. He envied Mycroft his greater intellect, and the smooth sailing placidity of his mind, and he hated Mycroft, for the same things. However similar they were, it was ruined by the fact that Mycroft would never be able to completely relate to Sherlock's fits of restlessness, or put up with his mess, due to this fundamental difference.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side as he recalled what it meant, accessing a deep, unused, dusty corner of his mind palace, to the place where he stored information on Mycroft. Mycroft was very, very tired. He remembered twenty-one year old Mycroft asleep at his desk with his research papers scattered around him, dressed in a similar manner. Mycroft had gotten a bruise on his cheek the next day, because he had simply _collapsed_ into unconsciousness, his face smacking into the desk. It was a family trait, somewhat, the ability to simply ignore their exhaustion, but at some point their bodies just took hold and rebelled.

Greg set the gun aside, raising his eyebrows, before pressing a finger to his lips, signalling them to hush. Sherlock wasn’t about to contradict him, he knew that Mycroft wouldn’t be of any help if he were that exhausted, and he would be angry if woken. A tired Mycroft denied of sleep was a terrifying thing to behold, and Sherlock never wanted to provoke the wrath of his elder brother that particular way. Greg set his hand over Mycroft’s head, covering his ear in a protective gesture, before he murmured, “What do you want?” Mycroft shifted slightly, his legs moving under the pale blue throw that covered the both of them. He burrowed deeper into the warmth of Greg's chest, as though trying to avoid waking.

“I need the thumbdrive and the evidence for the case he gave me.” Sherlock replied, equally softly, and noticed John giving him a surprised glance from his peripheral vision.

“Mantelpiece.” Greg replied shortly, and Sherlock crossed the room to pick it up, sliding it into a pocket. “Now, off with you both, and lock the door behind you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but ducked his head in a nod, ushering John out. Greg listened for the click of the lock, before jostling Mycroft. A smile spread on the other’s face, before a peal of laughter made its way through slightly parted lips.

“Right, I lied for you, Mycroft. Where’s payment?” Greg said affectionately, running his fingers through the ruffled ginger mess.

Mycroft’s eyes opened, and he glanced up at his lover with a playful glint in his eyes. He pressed a kiss to the underside of Greg’s chin, feeling stubble prickle his lips. “My savior.” Mycroft murmured, before he yawned. He nuzzled Greg’s neck sleepily, breathing his scent, “ ‘m tired. Further repayment will be completed tomorrow.”

He rested his head on the other man’s chest, and Greg wrapped an arm around him, before picking up the book again.

The fire crackled softly, and Mycroft’s breathing slowly evened out as his form relaxed in the arms of his beloved.


	3. Watching Movies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft have their movie nights.

“You can not be serious, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was stern, as he frowned at the stack of DVDs that his lover had set down on the coffee table.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, settling down on the couch, looking through the stack.

“Well, for one, they are all horror movies.” Mycroft folded his arms. “I don’t watch horror movies. Can we switch to something else?”

“I know you don’t watch them.” Greg set down the stack, and turned to Mycroft, “But we did agree on a compromise. I watch your movies one week, and you watch mine the next.”

“But these are horror movies. Don’t we both have more than enough horror in our daily lives?” Mycroft argued, his fingers running through his hair in frustration. Gregory’s body language was firm, resolute. Mycroft would not get out of this movie marathon without a fight, he could easily tell.

“Funny, you didn’t say that before we watched an entire 12 hours worth of World War II footage, Mycroft.” Greg remarked casually, but his mahogany-hued eyes betrayed a spark of irritation.

The corner of Mycroft’s lips tightened, but he remained silent as Greg put in the first DVD.

They had started on opposite ends of the couch, Mycroft displaying his displeasure to Greg by curling up and resolutely holding onto his mug of tea to stay warm in the rather chilly room,  
despite the fact that Greg had the comfortable blue throw. Greg, however, used to the ways of his oft-times reticent lover, continued to munch on the popcorn, homemade and sprinkled with sea salt, and cayenne pepper, knowing that when the tea cooled, Mycroft would have little choice but to cuddle up.

He chanced a glance at Mycroft. The other man had his feet firmly off the floor, curled under him, rather out-of-character for someone who rebuked Greg at the sight of feet on the coffee table, couch, or anywhere that was not the floor, where feet ought to be. His hands were trembling slightly, the detective could hear the splash of tea sloshing around in the half-filled cup, and Mycroft’s eyes were wide, frozen at the screen.

“Y’okay?” Greg asked around a mouthful of popcorn. Mycroft’s nose scrunched in a moue of disgust, and Greg swallowed his food before asking, “You look cold.” It wouldn’t do to say that Mycroft looked terrified, or he’d have his government man storming off.

“You’ve taken up all the blankets.” Mycroft’s voice was enough to keep the Poles frozen for the next millenium or so, damn global warming.

“Well, com’ere then.” Greg said, holding an arm out to beckon for Mycroft to shift over.

Mycroft gave a sniff, before setting down his cold mug, and moving into Greg’s warmth. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for all this.”

“All what?” Greg said, feeding Mycroft some popcorn.

“Choosing horror movies, when you know I hate them. Hogging the blankets.” Mycroft pouted, before eating a kernel from Greg’s fingers.

“Well, I hate war movies and political thrillers. Don’t see you budging on them, do I?” Greg retorted, then wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders to prevent any further escape, or attempts at elbow jabs to the ribs. Mycroft huffed out a breath and wrapped his arm around Greg’s while the other balanced the bowl of popcorn on his knees.


	4. Date Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date nights don't exist.

Date nights were a non-event in the Holmes-Lestrade household, after the initial honeymoon period.  
  
There were plans, alright. Their calendars proved it, days written in black ballpoint or navy blue fountain pen, in chickenscratch and scrolling calligraphy. Days turned into weeks; into months. Red ink blotting each note out. _My apologies- **It’s fine, go. God, I’m sorry** \- Crime doesn’t operate on a schedule_.    
  
Anniversaries forgotten, the regular date nights (Friday) cancelled.  
  
Birthdays alone, sometimes separated by paperwork, other times by countries and continents and time zones, or crime scenes, blood splatters and chases in sunlight, in rain, in fog, in snow. _ **I miss you.** Think of me._  
  
Frustration, exasperation, anger and resentment brewed silent, festered in hearts covered by waistcoats and bullet-proof vests as each party returned to a silent, empty house. Going to sleep in a cold, empty, too-large bed, it was too easy to feel unappreciated, unwanted, unloved as one hand reached into nothing on the other side of the bed. _**Where are you?** Will you be back?_  
  
Only to wake to another man, equally exhausted, curled up in bed. Sharing warmth, giving comfort even in somnolence, exchanging drowsy kisses on rare mornings together. Legs entangled, fingers seeking bare skin, mumbled affirmations of affections. ** _I love you._** _My heart is yours._  
  
Both taking whatever scraps of time they could, even if it were just a moment to write a note ( _Gregory, I’ll miss you in Shanghai, Mycroft_ ), or send a text ( _ **Stay safe - GL** // It’s Shanghai, not Gaza - MH_ ). A kiss pressed to a cheek at the breakfast counter as one darted out of the house while the other ate two portions of breakfast (mostly Greg, he’d run off the calories later anyway).  
  
Evenings spent before a roaring fire in autumn or winter, arguing- debating, discussing- current political issues, or crimes, music playing softly in the background- _**Rebel, Rebel** , Vivaldi’s Winter_, who said music had to match? Gaza overlaid with increasing crime, financial crises smothered by Sherlock’s latest antics, punctuated by an exasperated eye-roll and a huffed promise to “ _increase his surveillance_ ”, quickly rebutted by, “ ** _Any more surveilled, you’d be able to count each longing glance at John._** ”  
  
Mycroft in jewel tone pyjamas, a mug of tea in hand, Greg in an old London Met t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, worn in, the hems frayed. A blanket on their laps.  
  
Boxes of take-away Chinese clutched in hand, chopsticks battling for the very last piece of sweet and sour fish, laughter as Mycroft inevitably won, before he fed Greg, and they would slip into drowsy, satisfied chats, fingers entwined. _**You make me so happy.** I find myself unable to live without you._  
  
Mycroft’s husky purr, punctuated with Greg’s monosyllabic staccato as they slowly dozed off. Mycroft’s head in Greg’s lap, ginger hair stroked by work-roughened fingers.  
  
Twin rings, sapphires flush mounted into platinum, gleamed fluidly in the flickering flames. _**I’m yours** , I’m always yours._  
  
Waking up to one or the other’s phone, ringing shrilly to announce murder or political crisis, the sky still dark, flames turned into smouldering embers. Untangling their bodies, sharing the bathroom, complaining of aches and pains, echoes of “too old for this”. Tying each other’s ties, slipping on cufflinks, sharing yet another kiss, parting again (reluctantly) with love renewed, hearts light and faith rebuilt.  
  
 _I’ll see you soon. **Not if I catch you first.**_


	5. Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two mini-drabbles, stuck together by a theme.

Their kisses had run the whole spectrum of emotion.  
  
They shared needy, hungry, devouring kisses. Greg tugged Mycroft down by his lapels, Mycroft slammed Gregory into the nearest surface. Teeth sometimes clashed, lips were swollen, the hair on the back of their heads tugged and mussed up. The kisses after long periods of separation ran hot, tasted sweet and heady. They usually ended in a trail of shed clothes, and exhausted, sweaty bodies sprawled on a soft bed in a room smelling of electric reunion sex.  
  
Sometimes it was playful, and teasing. Little nips following constellations of freckles, an almost bite in an almost conspicuous area. Brushes of mouth against mouth, one pulling away while the other chased for more. Greg loved teasing and pushing boundaries, but Mycroft often got his own back. They played “Too Hot” with a smirk on his face, and a grin on his. 

 

* * *

  
  
“Hey.” Gregory opened the door before his lover had even pressed the doorbell. Mycroft let his brow furrow slightly in suspicion. Gregory never opened the door if he could help it. Much less eagerly. Mycroft never begrudged him for it, the other man was often home earlier, but his work was physical in nature, and (although Gregory hated to admit it) he was older, with age hovering just over his shoulder, threatening to catch up. What was going on? He ran his eyes over his lover’s form, perplexed by the sudden change in habits.  
  
Gregory was dressed in a comfortable, yet luxurious cashmere sweater in a shade of teal that complemented his tan, along with a pair of charcoal grey slacks. Mycroft could smell his cologne, the very same bespoke one that Mycroft had gotten for him from a perfumer, and Gregory rarely used. It seemed like Gregory was trying to impress someone. Him. The civil servant felt a little tug in his chest at the idea of Gregory wanting to still make a good impression.  
  
Greg watched Mycroft, and stood patiently while the other man tried to deduce him, a smile curving his lips gently, before he said, “Well? Figured it out yet?”  
  
The storm grey eyes snapped back up to meet amused hazel. “You’ve made an effort to dress up. But I don’t quite know why.” Mycroft murmured.  
  
“Look up.” Greg grinned.  
  
Mycroft’s mouth formed an “oh” of realization. It seemed as though the past weeks had simply slipped him by, so busy was he with work, but Gregory had not forgotten. Hanging above the threshold was a sprig of mistletoe.  
  
“First Christmas together,” Greg murmured, “in three years of our relationship. I think that deserves a celebratory kiss, don’t you?” His fingers wrapped around Mycroft’s silk tie.  
  
Winter-chilled lips met warmth. Their kiss started out slowly, Gregory taking the lead, brushing his lips over Mycroft’s in a gentle peck, before wrapping his arms around the other’s neck, tugging him close. Lips parted, and Mycroft moved in, out of the cold, using a foot to shut the door gently as he pressed Gregory against the wall, wresting control from the other man. His teeth nipped at Gregory’s lower lip, before he tugged lightly, and let go.  
  
Greg was grinning.  
  
“What is it?” Mycroft asked, an eyebrow arching.  
  
“No, it’s nothing.” Greg replied, “I have mistletoe over the dining table too.”  
  
Mycroft removed his coat, before saying with a tilt of his head, and a sly smile, “Well, let’s have dinner.”


	6. Wearing each other's ... cufflinks.

Of course Sherlock was first to find out when Greg and Mycroft’s relationship made the transition from plausible deniability to concrete fact.

It would have been sacrilege for anyone else to be first.

“Those are some very nice cufflinks, Lestrade.” Sherlock remarked, offhandedly as Greg handed him some photos of the crime scene.

The cufflinks in question were a pale aquamarine set in sterling silver, and played off against Greg’s tanned skin, and the navy-hued shirt he wore that day. Greg glanced down at them and looked up at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, “Yeah, I s’ppose they’re not bad.”

Mycroft had given them to him, on their previous date, when the civil servant broached the issue of their relationship. The man had downplayed the gift, claiming it was a mere token of his affections, and that it didn’t cost him too much to get.

“Well above your pay grade, I would say.” Sherlock glanced at the photos, and shuffled through them rapidly.

“What d’you mean?” Greg said, irritated, a scowl etching between his brows.

The issue of money had always been a touchy one with the police officer. Both Sherlock and Mycroft were at ease with spending when it suited them, but Greg was rather more constrained with his own spending capabilities. It always annoyed him whenever Sherlock alluded to his pay, because the younger man had the privilege of consulting freelance for no pay, living off his portion of the doubtlessly ample inheritance he had gotten, and the goodwill of Mycroft.

Rather, the guilt-trips that Sherlock easily arm-wrestled Mycroft into.

Greg had seen it himself, how easily the apparently imperturbable civil servant who would never bow to the cajoling or threats of his various allies and foes could be pressured into yielding to his younger brother’s whims and fancies. It was rather despicable of Sherlock, but when Greg tried to say anything, Mycroft would start a heated discussion (a row, basically) with his lover.

Greg had long given up hope of making his lover see sense.

“They’re sapphire.” The younger man set the photos on the desk. Greg spluttered his mouthful of coffee. Sherlock’s immaculate eyebrow rose in a sardonic curve. “That’s apparently not what he told you. What did he say they were to make you take them?” He settled down in the seat opposite Greg, and flipped open a file.

“Aquamarine.” The man grumbled. He fumbled them off, intending to return them to Mycroft. It was exorbitantly expensive, for a first gift. One of the cufflinks tinked to the ground, and rolled under his desk. He sighed and crawled into the dusty depths.

“I expected so.” Sherlock hummed as he thumbed through the file. “It seems like him to exploit your ignorance. Take care of those, if you please. I’m actually due to inherit them, if Mycroft dies without making it to the altar with you.”

“Inherit?” Greg said, from under his desk, peering at the gloom, hoping to catch a glimpse of silver. “What?”

“ They belonged to my late grandfather. My grandmother gave them to him on their forty-fifth wedding anniversary.” Sherlock said, with a dismissive wave of the hand that was unseen by the detective inspector. “Mycroft inherited it, along with the entire estate. He is the manager of my trust fund, and I only come into my half of the fortune when I turn thirty-five.”

“What?!” There was a loud thud as Greg hit his head on the underside of his desk, and everything on it jumped, his coffee sloshing out of the cup. “Why would he give me that?”  
Greg could almost hear the eyeroll from Sherlock as the other spoke, “It’s a declaration of intent of course. He’s trying to tell you subtly that he has decided to spend the rest of his life with you, until a bullet kills you, or a heart attack kills him, whichever is sooner.”

Greg couldn’t help but give a laugh at Sherlock’s cynicism, “And I bet that you even know which is more likely.” Sherlock fixed him with a look that spoke eloquently (wrote a thesis, even) about how stupid Greg was being in that exact moment.

They fell into silence as Greg stared at them, running a finger over them as the light made them glimmer.

Then he smiled, and slipped them on again.


End file.
